After
by Clovely
Summary: For all I couldn't bear to think about him without my heart aching, he is not so much a mystery anymore. He never has been. Our friendship may have been dormant, but it had never disappeared; the connection between us has always been strong enough to withstand even the most cruel turns of fate that the Capitol has thrown at us. We have always been simple. Except we haven't.
1. Chapter 1

Mornings are so much cooler now that the haze of the mines has lifted; the few that are still in operation sit far off in the distance, relieving the blossoming District 12 of its perpetual grayness.

I rouse early, just as the sky is turning silver and nature is beginning to breathe, and swing my legs over the side of the bed that I share with Peeta Mellark.

In slumber, he is far more peaceful; though the lines of worry and turmoil are still etched onto his face; a lifetime of confusion, of pain, of heartbreak has left him so. But it is in these moments where I don't fear for him. He is sound asleep, and nothing will stir him.

I bathe quickly, dress warmly and reset the braid in my hair, swiping my father's old hunting jacket from the foot of the bed. My gaze rests on Peeta for a single moment; I pull on my jacket and tug the cuff of the right sleeve down over my wrist. It still aches from yesterday, when in a fit he had seized me, crushed me in his powerful grip. A bruise has already begun to blacken, although those are nothing new. I decide to forget Peeta, forget the apologies he will shower me with when I return, and I set out down the hallway.

The children are asleep; the youngest not yet six years of age, and still so oblivious to the horror of the world they live in. With Peeta they are safe in ways I am not, so without much heed I continue out to the kitchen, grab my bow and arrows from their place above the door, and flee out into the cool morning air.

Hunting is the only thing that keeps me sane these days; while we can purchase an array of game, as well as anything we may need from the market, I feel that I may as well be hijacked myself if I was to give it up. It gives me a reason to get up in the morning, to pry myself out of bed and to see the day through to the next. Even if I don't manage to catch anything, the woods still remain as my sanctuary. I dare not tread the paths I used to, however; not the lake, not even the quiet, secret spot I shared with my best friend so many years ago.

Gale._ Gale_. Life is hard without him… At times unbearable. But never once has he wrote me, called me, sent word through others that he wished to ever see me again. And so, we live our lives apart. I've never tried to seek him out… I could never bring myself to. The past is the past, and I am of the belief that once something has been laid to rest then it is not to be disturbed.

But today… I feel different today. So when I reach the meadow, instead of heading east into my usual zone, I pick up west, and delve into the waiting bowers of the woods.

Nothing about it is unfamiliar; it's like I never even left. Every tree still as tall and green as I had left them, no stone overturned, no leaf on the ground out of place. It's eerie, how silent and stagnant the place is; like falling into a dream, as often I do. A find a smile — my first genuine smile in days, weeks even — slowly breaking across my features. My woods, my sanctuary, has been untouched.

I'm home.

The first thing I do is erect several snares along the path; basic things, for rabbits, for vermin, for anything stupid enough to wander through. As I delve further into the undergrowth, I spot a groosling creep across the clearing. The first I've seen in months; figures. All the good kills have wandered back to this place. Crouching low, I pursue it for a while, watching it wander as I notch an arrow. It stretches its wings… and I pierce it, right in the eye.

I spot very little for the rest of my session; but it's not as if it hinders me. I am perfectly happy to remain, as I am, away from the burden of what lies within the house guarded by bows of evening primrose. Returning to life feels like condemning myself to servitude; I am not free. I am not entirely happy, either. I will always be the Mockingjay, trapped within a cage, made to sing for the watery, adoring eyes of Panem. Every move I make is monitored; not by the Capitol, but by the populace. For all I am regarded as a war hero, I feel as though I am still living the war. Living the horror and the burden. And I'll never escape it.

Finally, as the sun peaks over the treetops, I realize it is urging me home. I collect my plucked groosling and adjust my bow over my shoulder, and head back through the woods with feet as heavy as my heart. Around me the trees give way, thinning as the wildlife disperses. I'm almost out — when something catches my eye. A rabbit; squirming and writhing in the bushes; I see its little legs kick out in desperation, its ears catch on twigs and leaves. I remember I'd laid down snares on my way in. As I advance, however, I become aware of a foreboding pressing on my heart. Something about this seems… _wrong_.

And then I catch it: I didn't lay a snare down here.

I study the trap, delicate and intricate, laid with meticulousness. My snares are excellent; but craftmanship like this is exceptionally rare, especially in these parts. A basic spring, but with an arrangement of knots and triggers that could only be the handiwork of one person. Slicing the rabbit free, I stagger back and try to comprehend the fact that Gale Hawthorne was close by.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time I return, Peeta is already up and waiting. The kitchen is warm and bright, and he is sitting, watching the door, fingers curled tightly around a steaming mug. The moment I enter his expression flickers; I catch the guilt and the confusion in his face before he replaces it with a small, sad smile.

"Katniss…"

I throw the groosling down on the table, sling my bow on the notch above the door. "It's getting colder," I remark. I can't meet his eyes, not when my own still lie on that trap in the woods…

"I know… Katniss, look. About yesterday —"

"Might have to chop a little more wood before the snow starts."

"_Why won't you look at me?_"

Something in me jolts agonizingly; my head whips around, eyes meeting a sorry sight. I see the distress teeming within him, eyes fit to burst into tears as he often does in moments like these. My mouth opens and closes lamely as I struggle to find an answer that isn't the truth. For all Peeta is there to keep me safe, to guard me from every possible harm, we're just too good at keeping secrets from each other. Or at least, I am.

Peeta has stood; he strides over to me, and, cautiously, removes my jacket from my shoulders. I feel his warm breath on my cheek, the steadiness of his hands as they brush my arms. He ensnares me in a loose embrace, resting his chin on my shoulder. Although I don't move to return the gesture, I don't push him off. "I'm sorry," he murmurs in my ear. "You shouldn't have to deal with this — deal with_me_ — but you do. And I love you for it. Katniss, I'm sorry I hurt you…" His arm wanders down and hesitantly takes my wrist; a resistant throb resituates from the blossoming bruise that guards it. I snatch it away; Peeta steps backward; releases me. I can see the agony flaring in his eyes.

"It's not that," I reassure him, rubbing my wrist. "It's fine."

"No, it's _not_ fine!" He runs his hands through his hair, clutching at it desperately; blue veins pulse against the whites of his strong arms as his knuckles grow white. Peeta's sad, blue eyes dig into mine. "I hurt you, Katniss! There is no excuse for that. Just… please."

I know what he wants. He wants me to concede, again, to forget that anything ill has happened between us. To hide the wounds under kisses and bandages and let them heal, and to move on as always we do. We don't talk about where Peeta goes when he leaves me, when his eyes roll back in his head and his muscles tense. I'm not sure I want to know.

So I drop my gaze guiltily for ever thinking I could blame him, and I roll up my sleeve to offer him my wrist. Tenderly he takes it and guides me to the table where he douses it in sweet-smelling oils to take away the pain, before slowly winding a soft white bandage around me. His fingers are soft and graceful; the hands of a painter. Of a man who had been broken, and expended every effort to not break anyone else.

His fingers entwine gently in mine. "I love you."

I look into his eyes then. The pain has glazed over and there is nothing but adoration, the most perfect tenderness that any woman should hope to receive. I often wish my eyes were so emotive; but I'm cursed with the eyes of the Seam. Nothing but anger and grief can lie within my gaze. So I smile at Peeta, as forced as it may be, and let him hold my hand. I say nothing.

Not a few minutes later, the sound of light and eager footsteps permeates the tenseness as my young, mirthful children hurtle down the stairs and into the kitchen. Peeta pries himself from me with a fond glance and a gentle caress of my thumb to kiss his daughter on the forehead and bundle his son into his arms. I manage to fix them with the same smile as I did their father as I rise, and clear the dead groosling from the table.

Soon enough, the kitchen is bright and alive with their lives and their energy. The children bake with Peeta while I skin the bird and prepare slivers for breakfast. I don't engage in their idle pleasantries, and they know better than to engage me. It was established long ago that _mom's head — and her heart — is elsewhere_.

I do talk as we eat, happy to laugh with my children and my husband; but as I do, the implications of the morning weigh down on me. The trap… _Gale_. Gale is everywhere. In the questioning glint of Peeta's eyes, and the curiosity of my daughter's face. In the burning throb that permeates my bandage. In the fast and erratic pounding of my heart. It's days like this one when I realize exactly the life I am resigned to living by being forced to comprehend the life I could have had. I wonder what my best friend is doing now… Whether he brought another woman with him.

Will I see them?

I try not to dwell on it. But I can't help myself.

Hours later, after Peeta has left for the bakery and escorted the children to school, I stand in the kitchen, soaking the same dish over and over. The soap has all but dispersed, the once steaming water lukewarm on my fingers. I gaze out the window with a half-formed hope that somewhere out there, Gale will be gazing out a window and thinking of me. It occurs to me as I set the dish aside that for the better part of twenty years, I have missed him. But I've been too involved in my misty veil of false security to realize it. Does he miss me, I wonder, drying my hands on my pants. He must.

I don't leave the kitchen for the better part of the morning, because I know that nothing really lies beyond it. I spend most of my days being dutiful, although my efforts are not needed. Peeta is the only real parent in the house, and, although he is aware, he doesn't seem to mind. Neither do the children, and I can't blame them. So I busy myself with making pot after pot of tea, reading a book, staring into space, and thinking mostly of Gale as I relive our friendship in vague sorrow. I remember our Sundays together in the woods, our mutual desire to survive not just for our families, but for each other. The support he always offered, and the glimmer of hope he represented that things could change in ways that Peeta couldn't promise. He ignited my fire; without him, I'm naught but a spark. But I have resigned myself to the fact that that will never change.

As noon just passes, I find the strength to leave the kitchen and to continue my contemplation in the bath. I scrub myself as if I'll never be clean and redress my wound, and make an effort to look presentable. I'm not sure why — most days I'm content to remain as I am, for none but Peeta and the children will see me. Occasionally I'll pay a visit to Haymitch, to the Hob, but even then I never select from the dresses in the back of my closet. But today I do. I wear one of my mother's old garments that she left behind — soft and green, like the forest, with shiny silver buttons that catch the sunlight just nicely. I feel a little more worthwhile in this dress.

As I'm descending the stairs in search of something to do, there's a soft knock at the front door. Too light and precise to be Haymitch; I surmise that it's Delly Cartwright or one of her sons, running an errand from the bakery.

I cross through the living room and down the hall, somewhat thankful for complacent company. These little visits from old friends help keep the spark alive and waiting in me. I prepare myself to be assaulted with the loving arms of a child thrown about my neck as I open the door; but I freeze, like a deer who sees my arrow just a second too late, ready to run but resigned to futility.

The spark blares into life at the very sound of his voice. "Hi, Catnip."


	3. Chapter 3

What next? Do I cry? Do I scream? Do I slam the door in his face and pray that he goes away? Or do I just throw myself to him and let him catch me, as he always has done?

He doesn't tell me, and I don't decide. So we stand, staring at each other for an uncomfortably long period of time.

Gale Hawthorne is standing on my doorstep.

After the most agonizing few moments of my life, my eyes slowly adjust to this odd and unfamiliar thing before me as if he were a sunspot on my vision. With unsteady steps and a voice so feeble it may as well be imaginary, I move to press myself against the wall.

The hallway is wide and uninhabited.

"You can… you can come in, Gale."

His expression visibly softens as he crosses the threshold.

I lead him to the kitchen where we sit silently, with two steaming cups of tea between us. The afternoon light that filters through the window casts a warm glow — and deep shadow — across Gale's face. It is now that I can finally examine him, see him for what time has bestowed him with. Like Peeta, his distress and despair runs deep; every line on his face has long since been there. I doubt he smiles often, if at all; he hides it well behind a five o'clock shadow that I don't doubt was grown through conscious effort. But his eyes…_those eyes_. Gale's eyes are just as vibrant as ever they were, glistening and grey and positively smouldering against the soft, dark pallor of his face. They're agonizing to behold because I know the pain in them is want of me. But, still… there's something there that I have never expressed, let alone experienced.

I feel guilty just for looking at him.

Finally, as our tea grows ever colder and our moods ever more sallow, Gale breaks the silence. "So. You and Peeta, then?" There's a touch of resentment in his otherwise complacent tone. I do my best to ignore it.

"Yes. Me and Peeta."

"How's that going, then?"

"Fine." I answer a little too quickly for my liking, and it has not gone unnoticed. Gale's brow quirks upward, and the hard line of his frown twitches subtly in what I can only guess is satisfaction. Before he can comment, I redirect the conversation. "I found your snare this morning."

He nods, placing the rim of his cup to his lips. "I found yours too," he says, taking a drink. He swishes his tea around in his mouth, swallowing laboriously. "I got all caught up in it."

And then… it happens. Something I thought would never happen, save in my brief and fleeting moments of solitude. A warmth spreads slowly through my cheeks, the nerves in my face singing as Gale receives the first smile — the first_real_ smile — that anyone has ever conjured beyond the bounds of our woods. It's striking, spurring, and something warm and burning tightens within the confines of my ribcage. As I bring my tea to my lips, I realize that it is happiness, belonging.

Gale must obviously see it in me as well; for he offers me a smile that means just as much as my own. He visibly relaxes, just a little, and somehow the kitchen seems less tense and freezing. "That's, uh.." he nods at me, his tone casual. "That's a pretty dress…"

"Why are you here, Gale?"

He blanches, blinks, taken aback by the bluntness of my statement. Gale exhales deeply, his eyes wandering across the grain of the table. "Not much for the small talk, are you?"

"No. I'm really not." Just looking at him now, with nothing to restrain my tongue, spurs me. I am blinded by my fury and my irritation, the shock of seeing Gale here in my kitchen. My chest seizes painfully, as my mind begins to feed my voice of it's own accord. "I want to know why you're here. Why you think it's okay to just turn up on my doorstep after years and years of not speaking and expect me to just welcome you back into my life, no questions asked. Why you suddenly care again after I've finally found some sort of normal that doesn't include you… why you're just… there, again."

The look on Gale's face confirms my own tenacity; I am just as shocked as he is. Quickly I push myself from the table, anxious to get away from what I've just lain between us, but he's up as soon as I am and suddenly he's close — desperately close. His strong, calloused hands brush my arms, and my breath seizes as I realize that Gale Hawthorne is touching me for the first time in over ten years.

"Katniss…" he breathes. He smells of cologne, but underneath it the rich and familiar aroma of wood-smoke remains. "I never — _ever_ — stopped caring."

His eyes are earnest, although I can't meet them. I hear the desperation in Gale's voice, his desire for me to recognize his sincerity; he wants me to care. And I want me to care. So when I finally do let my eyes lock with his, I see they are wide and glassy as if he is afraid. Never have I seen Gale so vulnerable; and he must have realized that I have seen it, because the moment when I feel I connect with him he lowers his gaze, and wills the hurt away. Back to wherever it came from.

"I missed you," I say simply.

Gale smiles a little, and his hands drop to his sides. I rub my arms where he had gripped me; they suddenly seem a little cold for having lost him. Then I realize: all of me has been cold since having lost him. I've lived all these years, going through the motions, as if existing was a remedy for losing one of the few people to have seen me as I am, and to have loved me genuinely. I had always thought that Prim was the only person who could have accepted me for what I was; to have seen the good in a girl who would be as callous and cold as I have been. But Gale's touch had always warmed me, reaffirmed that in essence I was once good. He is the last surviving remnant of the days when I was truly happy.

God, I've missed him.

So I reach for him, and I pull Gale into the most awkward embrace I could have ever given. And by my standards, it's akin to holding a burning rag, dripping with acid. But in a nice way. "Why are you here?" I whisper.

"Oh, you know…" Gale's arms snake around me gingerly, as if by touching me I could melt, or shatter. His voice is soothing. "Work… job, thing. But I'd missed the place. The family. This."

"This?"

His arms draw a little tighter around me; I feel his palm stretch against the small of my back, his fingers cradle my hair. Gale nods, his voice dropping almost as low as mine. "Yeah… this."

I don't know what _this_ is. A reunion? A friendship? It's indistinguishable. All I know is that it's something, and that I like it. Then I remember — _Peeta_. Slowly, I uncoil myself from Gale. "It's getting late. I have some things to do…"

"Peeta?" he utters dryly.

My eyes widen.

"I didn't mean — _wow_," Gale covers his mouth, and glances around incredulously. I can't help the smile that creeps across my lips, nor the laugh that follows it. "Stop it," he flounders in an attempt to be stern, but I can see the amusement creeping across his own features. It feels so natural to be this way again with him.

"I know what you meant," I laugh, drawing my arms across my chest. "And, yes. He'll be back soon. I don't know how he'd take to you standing in his kitchen."

"Yours," Gale says. "Your kitchen, too. And if I'm not welcome, that's fine." He backs away, the faintest glimmer of hurt in his eyes, turning to make towards the hall.

Instantly I reach out to touch him, to stop him from leaving, but I know better. "At least… can I see you again before you leave? Properly, I mean."

Gale nods. "What did you have in mind?"

"Hunting," I say, almost instantly. "Let's go hunting tomorrow morning. Check the snare line."

"Same place?"

"Same time."

"I'll see you there."

Smiling warmly, Gale engulfs me in another hug. He holds me at arm's length, glancing over my face, into my eyes, as if he can't believe that time has even passed between us; or it has passed in the way it has. For all I hated him, for all I couldn't bear to think about him without my heart aching, he is not so much a mystery anymore. He never has been. Our friendship may have been dormant, but it had never disappeared; the connection between us has always been strong enough to withstand even the most cruel turns of fate that the Capitol has thrown at us. We have always been simple.

Except, of course, we haven't. And I'm reminded of that when Gale leans in, and kisses me.


	4. Chapter 4

This is wrong. I know it's wrong, and Gale knows it's wrong. And yet, neither of us are doing a single thing to stop it.

He's still kissing me. His lips are warm and soft against mine, expressive in their movements. His arms are strong as they embrace me, pulling me closer, but not forcing me to him; Gale is more respectful than that, taking heed to the fact that I could - and should - shove him away at any moment now. But all it would take would be the slightest puckering of my lips, a gentle inclination towards him and I would be kissing him too.

Instead, I do nothing. I wait for Gale to finish, for I am powerless; too stunned to make a single move.

Eventually he does pull away, and my lips grow cold again. He studies me, holding me at arm's length for any sign that I've had an emotional reaction to him. But instead, I remain blank; no good, no bad. For I don't know how I'm feeling after all this, and apparently neither does he.

"So... uh..." Gale's breathing is warm and heavy, his words breathless. "Tomorrow. Same time, same place. Bring your bow." And without another word he releases me completely, and is whisked out the kitchen door.

My mind is reeling; my body still sings, searing, although there is nothing restraining it. Gale is no longer at my lips or wrapped around me but I feel him as if he were; he is everywhere.

Hurriedly I collect the tea pot and our half empty cups in my arms and dump them into the sink. Warm water streams from the faucet and I scrub at the china crockery without mercy; Gale's lips were here, I think. Before they were on mine, they were on the rim of this cup, and no amount of scrubbing is going to disperse that blistering warmth that's erupted across my skin.

I only hope that when Peeta returns in the evening, he cannot see this blooming case of the Seam that's colored my flesh.

But all I think about as the sun creeps over the other side of the house is Gale; how he had so smoothly appeared to me again, after all these years, and just as easily he's fled again. But I will see him; I'll see him in the morning, and the very notion terrifies me.

What if he's not there waiting for me? It's entirely possible after what he did today that he'll leave the district, never to face me again. Gale knows the boundaries, and he knows he's overstepped them. Though I'm not sure if he knows just how lenient I was in letting him.

He'll come. I know Gale. He'll be there.

Somewhere in my chest, an old and out of tune note of excitement strikes loud and clear.

It's not until seven-thirty until Peeta returns home with the children, is arms laden down with bouquets of bread. It's gotten to be laborious, but I appreciate the gesture; whenever he hurts me, he mends my wounds with icing and pastries. Cheese buns, fresh loaves filled with fruit and nuts, sweet rolls and sticks; my children have grown on a diet of bread and game, and not one of us has ever served to complain. When I accept the bread from Peeta, the hesitance in his eyes melts away to reveal bright and blue sincerity that is overjoyed that for the moment, I still love him.

Even as the night passes and I am surrounded by my family, arms deep in the life I have resigned myself to, my mind remains in the woods. It yearns for what awaits, and relishes the fear that pounds in time with my heart into the night. Once or twice, I'm sure that Peeta sees it; that my eyes are vacant and my heart is hollow of my involvement with him and our children.

He has the sense not to unearth it, but that night when we go to bed, he winds his arm more tightly around me than usual.

When morning comes, I find myself completely unprepared. I'd spent the entire night restless and rigid, my eyes tracking the journey of the moon across the sky, reliving the agony of the past. Gale's face is in all of my memories; swooping Prim away from me, and urging me to the stage that would begin my journey to death. Bound to the whipping post, his back stripped of skin but his heart never stripped of its dignity. His hands on either side of my face, holding me fast and steady, as he dared to place his lips to mine at least once more.

Outside, the grey of dawn holds a new tension as it spurs me. The morning is crisp and cool as I slip into my hunting gear and fasten my quiver with trembling fingers, willing myself to focus on the warm of my jacket than the coldness that emanated from Peeta's arms as I slithered free from them. He does not belong out there, with me, beyond the bounds of this house. So with deep and tremulous breaths I leave him behind.

The waiting arms of the trees greet me as old friends, and usher me among their number. I slip silently into the shade of the greenery and turn my feet lightly, not wanting to disturb the calm that they so graciously supply. It feels strange to return to the woods with a sense of purpose; my haven of survival, preserved as lush and powerful as the day I first entered it, entraps me. I am no longer in control of my stride. The breeze guides me as the canopy draws me further towards the place where I'm sure that Gale will be. Just as he always was.

It's not long before I reach our ledge. I have rarely returned to it for fear of the agony it would cause me, but to see him waiting, dressed smart and warm with a sleek new bow under his fingers, draws all feeling entirely. I can no longer feel my heart as I turn to it for guidance; usually it will tell me to run in either direction. But the fact that it is dormant tells me I mustn't run, for there is no point.

Gale is here. I am here. That means it's time to hunt.

When he sees me approach him, his face warms. But as he stands and scoops up his equipment, he is guarded and reluctant to be near me, as if being within a breath of me could elicit a replay of whatever incurred between us yesterday. I smile, thankful for the space; even so close I feel heated and airy.

Wordlessly, we set off into the forest to reignite our former ritual.

It's strange how effortless the morning is for us. I had thought it would be awkward and strained, but instead I feel as natural as I ever have with Gale by my side. Once again we move as two parts of the same being, silent and wary of the forest all around us, scoping prey and working in tandem to become a singular flawless entity. The precision with which we hunt is unrivalled; I know I will never be able to find anyone like Gale.

It is after we've brought down three pheasants, a handful of squirrels and a sizable buck that we finally notice how the day has begun without us; the sun is high and the atmosphere warming. Everything is becoming lazy and comfortable, evident by the ever-present smile on my lips.

We sit by the creek, enjoying this complacency between us, when suddenly Gale speaks for the first time all day. "What're we going to do with this?" he says, his eyes roaming the game sprawled between us.

I merely shrug at him. "Sell it, I guess. People still pay good money for game like this. Unless you want me to roast it for you." When Gale's brow creases in disbelief, almost disdain, I feel myself flush.

"What?" I demand.

"You? Cook this?" His smile is jeering.

"What's wrong with that?"

Gale raises his hands defensively, his grin growing ever wider. "Nothing, nothing. Just never picked you for being Supreme Housewife Katniss."

Although I flare with rage for Gale's indignant remark, I'm not as offended as I feel I should be. His smile is too boyish, grey eyes bright and challenging. I try so hard not to smile, but he coaxes one from me anyway. Biting on my tongue, I turn away. "Don't start," I warn him. "You'll spoil today."

I'm as surprised by my remark as Gale is. I'd not yet verbally acknowledged how... natural I felt. It was as if we had never left, and all the wounds between us had never been inflicted. The welcome calm of the woods has been amplified, and it is only just now that I'm realizing that feeling has returned to my body. I question when it left me, and how long I have lived without the awareness of every nerve and every sensation.

Embarrassed by my admission, my attention turns back to my arrows as I profusely clean them in my lap.

"Call me stupid," Gale says after a while, "But I don't think anything could spoil today."

Finishing the last of my arrows, I carefully slot them one by one into their quiver. "Well, then, you're stupid." But he and I both know that nothing really could ruin today.

So when his hand finds mine among my arrow shafts, I don't object. In fact, I don't even object when he pries them away from me, or when he shifts himself a little closer to caress my cheek. My eyes meet his, and he's not a stranger anymore. This is Gale, the young, frightened boy I was drawn to because he alone held my salvation. He is the best friend I had lost, the love I never knew.

I'm not even surprised when his lips once again find mine, because the furious drumming of my heart has been crying to warn me of it. Now that I am alive, I am able to feel.

Gale's lips are soft and full and warm, and not at all demanding. In fact, they linger against mine, hesitant to move any further. Still as a statue, I note how fine this feels; his fingertips gently skim my skin and it burns beneath his touch. A match strikes within my chest and my body screams for me to do something, and do something now so that it may continue to feel and touch and smell and taste and experience what it's like to be alive.

All it would take is the smallest parting of my lips, a gentle pucker of mine to his, and I will be lost to sensation.

In this moment, nothing else matters. Not our lives beyond the woods or the people that may be hurt. There is only me and Gale and the promise of a fire that will not burn me. So when I give in, I kiss him with all the ferocity who realizes just how dead she had become.


End file.
